


Ghost gardener

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is a Tease (Good Omens), Fae & Fairies, M/M, Other, Sassy Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sassy Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29150490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: The Fell brothers buy a castle - and they get their fill of the castle experience when it turns out that the castle is - haunted. It's not a ghost, so maybe haunted is not the right word... Anyway, Gabriel doesn't have any time for this, so it's up to the butler and Aziraphale to sort things out and find a boyfriend for Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 72
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGladia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGladia/gifts).



> Smn asked for the Canterville ghost AU and here it is! Nothing makes sense, nothing hurts, everybody lives.

Gabriel and Aziraphale Fell come from money. They come from super duper Wall Street money. Aziraphale doesn't approve, but moving to Britain means he can be like - like T.S. Elliot (sans antisemitism) or Henry James. 

It's not strictly correct to say that both brothers come from money. Aziraphale has been studying endlessly, endlessly funded by his Wall Street abiding older brother, who thinks that Aziraphale is the smartest cookie and the sharpest pencil. Gabriel is no William James to Aziraphale's Henry James, but since Gabriel hasn't read either, Aziraphale won't say so. Gabriel has given Aziraphale the life of comfort and libraries. And now Gabriel wants to buy an old English estate, hire a butler and pretend that everything is fine as if the world had been shrieking in horror on the eve of either world war. Take your pick. Aziraphale doesn't want to take any picks. He's in charge of his brother's charitable efforts, because Gabriel has an image to uphold. Yet, Aziraphale still appreciates the finer things in life, be it wine or food or accomodation or old books. Aziraphale's inner socialist and Aziraphale's outer capitalist make for a good case for Dr Freud. Or Lecter. Any questionable psychiatrist would do. 

Oh, none would do, Aziraphale is cooking in his guilt and indulgence like coq au vin. It's really just like wine and vinegar - both perfect but one is the downfall of another. Unless you can't tell, Aziraphale reads a lot of philosophy. He's a smart cookie and a sharp pencil.

Incidentally, when Aziraphale is nervous, he sharpens all the pencils he can find, and since Gabriel often forgets that Aziraphale is no longer a teenager he was when their parents died, there are a lot of craft supplies in their shared penthouse - and consequentially, plenty of pencils to sharpen. Aziraphale sharpens them into oblivion or mini spears. Gabriel once used a sharpened pencil as a canape fork, and Aziraphale loves his brother dearly. He might have been a bit mad, alright, but it doesn't mean a thing, because Gabriel honestly thought that a steel sharp watercolour pencil (sky blue, #87CEEB) was just some peculiar cutlery Gabriel had yet to master. 

Their new estate - and it's theirs, _theirs_ , because Gabriel doesn't want to die and leave Aziraphale penniless or something - is the most stereotypical English castle one can imagine. (Stop here. Imagine.) Aziraphale would have loved something less stereotypical, but Gabriel says - in delight - that their castle is haunted! 

Aziraphale has to ask Gabriel whether he's committed a crime. Gabriel is scandalised. He's just tired and wants to enjoy his money and an old English castle. And a butler. Aziraphale suspects that it's a butler. 

The butler is a short non-binary person called Bea. The moment they and Gabriel see each other, Aziraphale can see every porn video he's ever seen. He's seen a lot, not that he's about to admit it. It's all for the best, really, because if Gabriel and Bea are preoccupied with each other, then Aziraphale can read and research, plan their meals, chatter with the cook and wonder how he ended up being an old English baron, sans the Gothic subtext, in this day and age. 

The castle has a greenhouse. No one goes there. Even Bea doesn't go there, and Bea doesn't even come from the area. They've been there once and told Aziraphale to never go there. They promised to have it destroyed and wiped out. 

Bea is a pretty terrifying person, so Aziraphale considers listening to them for about two minutes. Then he makes it to the greenhouse. Gabriel and Bea must be busy - _planning_ or whatever it is they are doing together. Aziraphale doesn't judge and his bedroom is far from Gabriel's anyway. Aziraphale doesn't sleep well or much, but he has his own subscription to a few porn sites whose content is spectacular and directed by women and queer people. Actually it's Aziraphale's own business, although he'd be happy to spill the tea in DMs. 

It's February. The only spectacular thing around is the amount of gloom. Aziraphale is quite ready to predict the exact time of the Apocalypse. It must be right now. 

Yet, the greenhouse is in full bloom. It's a tropical forest. There's a velvet worm who's so stunned by Aziraphale that Aziraphale's shoes are immediately covered in goo. There are hummingbirds. There's a pretty pissed off capybara. There's a fucking pelican who tries to pet - or eat - the capybara because pelicans have no concept of consent apparently, when it comes to capybaras. It's a bit of an Amazonian rainforest with a touch of Australia. 

Aziraphale doesn't find it particularly terrifying, because the other option is the gloom outside that might make all three Brontë sisters consider their own works fluffy. 

Aziraphale thinks he's had too much tea. So he apologises and leaves - or he means to, but there's a huge question mark on the floor, painted in blood or something equally red. It might belong to the scenography of _Alice in Wonderland_ or Aziraphale's nightmare, but then again - tea. Aziraphale needs scones and a chat with the cook.

He can't help returning and wiping the floor clean a few hours later. 

He takes a bottle of wine with him when he retires to his room at night. He takes a bath. He reads Petronius through the night and has to watch some porn to alleviate the tension in the morning. 

When Aziraphale comes down for breakfast, sated and a bit wistful (Oh, how many problems a good boyfriend might solve!), he's met with Gabriel talking about horse breeding. 

One look at Bea confirms Aziraphale's suspicion that it wasn't what they meant when they spoke about riding. 

Gabriel's faithful assistant, Michael, boring and puritanical to the point of making Oliver Cromwell weep, nods and makes notes. 

Bea rolls their eyes and approaches Aziraphale. 

"Went there, didn't you?"

"I did." Aziraphale innocently spreads butter on his toast. 

"Saw the capybara?"

"I did." Aziraphale adds some marmalade. 

"That pelican is harassing it. I won't tolerate this behaviour. It has to go. All of it. Capybara can be smuggled back to South America. I know people. I worked with a mobster with ecological sympathies."

Aziraphale bites his toast and looks at Bea with interest. 

"Also, I don't believe in ghosts. I mean, this place has been renovated. No ghost should tolerate plumbing. Am I right?"

Bea looks distressed and Aziraphale likes them, so he nods. 

"If you go there again… Would you like a gun?"

"I'm not shooting the pelican!"

"It's harassing the capybara. If you're not shooting it, I'm shooting it. You can't educate a pelican. I worked for a mobster. I know how to kill a pelican. And a human. And maybe even a capybara, but it's too cute." Bea swallows nervously. Gabriel is discussing _breeding_ with Michael. 

"That wasn't what you meant, right?" Aziraphale asks with a knowing smirk.

"It wasn't. He's good. But… that wasn't what I meant."

"Much work to do. Hope you don't intend to rob us, because - I'm not that innocent."

"Why, thank you for Britney Spears on the loop in my head. And that wasn't what I meant."

Aziraphale sighs. He and Bea chat for some more. They both have a weakness for Australian fauna and funny Bibles. Bea offers to find Aziraphale a boyfriend. Aziraphale wants the whole thrill of finding one on his own. 

Although the whole talk about horse breeding might make him change his mind. And shoot the pelican. 

Aziraphale returns to the greenhouse. There's an even bigger and angrier and bloodier question mark on the floor by the entrance.

"Well, I can't answer a question, if I only have a question mark! Anyway, I'm here for the pelican."

And Aziraphale enters.

He sees a tall red-haired man dressed in a long black robe. Those red locks fall over sharp shoulders - sharper than cheddar and Aziraphale's pencils. There are exquisitely pretty feet peeking from under the robe. 

The man has the pelican perched on his arm. 

"You leave my capybara alone or you're back with the poachers and taxidermists! I swear, you won't stand a chance against those… No, I have nothing against an interspecies relationship but it has to be consensual. There must be courting… Well, maybe they didn't like the snack! Maybe they are not interested in the snack! But you're not assaulting my capybara."

The pelican guiltily flies away. The capybara rubs against the man's leg like a cat. Aziraphale coughs.

"Fuck!" The man says and turns to Aziraphale. "Fuck! You're too pretty. Who are you?"

Aziraphale hasn't been called pretty often. He's - soft. He has blond curls and blue eyes. His smile is pleasant - or wicked, depending on the occasion. But _pretty_ \- that he hasn't been called. 

"I'm - Aziraphale Fell. I'm the owner of this castle."

"The fuck you are. I could provide that, by the way." The wan makes a few steps towards Aziraphale. He saunters, he doesn't walk, no, he doesn't. And Aziraphale is horny. 

"Who are you?" Aziraphale asks, because he's not horny enough. Besides, he might dream about hitching up that robe while making out passionately with the stranger, but he can still think almost clearly.

"I'm Crowley." His cheekbones are to die for and to kill with. His eyes are yellow and like those of a cat. He's graceful and _hot_. The flowers try to reach out to him. Aziraphale suddenly finds the flowers very phallic. Aziraphale suddenly is very jealous of the phallic flowers. He has his own phallic flower in his pants and he doesn't mind being that vulgar.

"And what are you doing here?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Well. I tend to the garden. And some animals. Don't step on Steven!" Crowley yells and points at a velvet worm who eyes Aziraphale's shoes with carnal hunger. Or so Aziraphale thinks. He takes a step back all the same.

"It's my castle now. You can't tend to your garden anymore because it's my garden now. Mine and my brother's."

"The one who has sex with the butler?"

"Have you been spying on them?"

"No, I haven't. They are loud, is all." Crowley shrugs. 

"Haven't heard them."

"Because you're a human. And I'm not."

"Who are you then?"

"Not gonna say. Names have power."

"You just told me yours!" Aziraphale crosses his arms.

"Well, fuck. It's all because you're pretty." Crowley points an accusatory finger at Aziraphale. "And _you_ told me yours anyway. Ha!"

Crowley's triumph doesn't last long. 

"So… are you a fae?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Shit!" And Crowley disappears. The garden is just as verdant, if not more. 

"Don't judge me!" Aziraphale tells a nearby eucalyptus. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have three chapters of this already, so why not post them all, right?

Like many rich people, Aziraphale has an assistant. Unlike most rich people, Aziraphale's assistant is a mostly useless man called Newt. Oh, Newt is a sweetheart, he's kind and thoughtful and modest. He has no illusions about his abilities. He knows that they amount to exactly zero plus his talent to break any electric appliance within range. He does his job, though, which is mostly finding Aziraphale some reading material in accordance with Aziraphale's wishes. 

Newt's girlfriend and the dark lady of his thankfully non-existent sonnets moved to England a while ago, so Newt was more than happy to follow Aziraphale to England as well. 

Aziraphale is thinking all that lying in his bed in the morning. He had the most peculiar dream, that featured the strange greenhouse, a pelican, a capybara, a velvet worm… And a very sexy young man in a black robe. 

Aziraphale can only yawn and get up. Obviously he needs to drink less tea, stay hydrated all the same and perhaps, perhaps, perhaps ask Newt to find Aziraphale everything about the fae. Aziraphale has enough reading material to last a lifetime, but he reads more during one day than most people do during their lives.

He gets up and stretches. Something totally disgusting touches his feet, forcing Aziraphale to look down. 

There's a velvet worm who's just shot its entire glue gun load on Aziraphale's toes.

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale says, indignantly. 

The velvet worm walks away just as indignantly. 

"You belong in Australia!" Aziraphale yells. He's ridiculous. This is ridiculous. 

Oh, and lookie here, there's a question mark on his door. In blood of course.

Aziraphale huffs and goes to the bathroom. There are two question marks, put next to each other to make a heart, on the mirror. 

No velvet worm has fury like Aziraphale faced with the need to do some cleaning in the morning, but Aziraphale does it all the same. He even overdoes it, until everything smells of rubbing alcohol, acetone and frustration. 

With a huff, Aziraphale begins to shave and get dressed and overall ready for the day. When he looks at himself in the standing mirror, there is another  _ message  _ on it. 

_ I'm not innocent either. Fancy a drink? A capybara? A naughty, naughty pelican? I really don't know what to do with it. _

Aziraphale cleans that mirror as well. No hospital smells cleaner than Aziraphale's room, and Aziraphale stops for a moment to consider how come he has all the necessary chemicals and rags to do all this cleaning… Well, at least Crowley is apparently a socialist. It could have been worse. 

Aziraphale goes downstairs. 

"Go to the greenhouse," Bea says in passing. 

Aziraphale doesn't care for anything. He needs his tea and his eggs and his toast and some bacon too. 

When he looks down at his plate, it says… DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT SAYS?

It says, in bacon, that no pig will ever love Aziraphale, however pretty he is. 

And apparently a vegetarian too. Aziraphale sighs. 

He eats his breakfast and thinks about New York. Things were easier there, no creatures, no velvet worms, a cosy soulless penthouse… Aziraphale has never thought he'd miss it. He misses it. 

After breakfast, out of sheer spite, Aziraphale goes for a walk. It might be raining cats and dogs, but that's why humans invented umbrellas and Rhianna. How very clever!

Wellies are not Aziraphale's shoes of choice, but they keep his feet dry and relatively warm, especially with a little help from Aziraphale's woolen socks. Aziraphale appreciates that said socks have four-leaf clovers on them, just in case. You never know with - Crowleys.

And out of sheer spite yet again Aziraphale ignores Newt's ramblings about all the books about fae that he has found and reads the latest paleontology news instead. Solid, scientific data, no mythology, nothing sexy whatsoever, no magic, no plants unless they are fossils. Perfect. 

He pauses to ring for some more tea - he doesn't remember that he has decided to drink less tea - and when he lowers his eyes on the page again, he sees that there are a few facts -  _ corrected. _

"This won't do!" Aziraphale drops the journal and stomps out and towards the greenhouse. 

"You, my dear, need to learn some manners! First you show up, all hot and sexy, then you tease me and defile my mirrors and think you're educated enough to correct…" He stops dead in his tracks. 

See, the greenhouse is empty and dusty. It's abandoned. Nothing has grown here for ages. 

"What the fuck?" Bea says next to Aziraphale, making him jump.

"I could ask you the same! And whatever has happened to the capybara! And eucalyptus! And magnolia! And everything else! Hummingbirds!"

There's a loud splash and both Aziraphale and Bea look down at their feet. There are two velvet worms who look like Clint Eastwood after a duel, victorious and smug. 

"I loved those shoes," Aziraphale sighs. 

"It can be cleaned. I'll take care of it. Took care of worse, really."

Somehow Aziraphale gives Bea his shoes and walks back to his room in his socks. The things he does for - velvet worms. 

Another pair of the same shoes on, Aziraphale returns to his reading, at least he means to, but all his carefully printed out paleontology articles are full of corrections and snide remarks. 

There must be something with the local air. There must be some wicked viruses or bacteria in it. Or in the water. Definitely not in the mirrors in Aziraphale's room. 

And Aziraphale might love his brother dearly, but he knows that Gabriel will laugh at him and suggest some exercise. Gabriel is always doing some exercise, even now when it's time to have supper and Gabriel is nowhere to be seen.

"I suggest we sit by the greenhouse at night and watch," Bea says, unceremoniously joining Aziraphale for the meal. "Where's your brother?"

"Running."

"In this weather? Is he that kinky?"

"Oh, no, no kinks. He just thinks it's healthy. Treadmill doesn't make for a genuine experience apparently."

Bea curses and rolls their eyes. 

"Bring whiskey," Aziraphale says without looking at Bea. "We'll catch that bastard and punish him!"

"Who are you talking about? I'm only interested in the capybara's well-being. No bulldozer agreed to come here in this weather, but the moment it does, I'm driving it through that wretched place myself!"

It's too Edgar Poe for Aziraphale's tastes so he pours himself more soup.

He and Bea spend the night by the greenhouse. They finish a bottle of whiskey and bond over Gabriel's thickness, although they refer to entirely different types of it. But bonding is bonding. 

Nothing happens of course. 

At dawn Aziraphale enters his room. His mirror glares at him.  _ Where have you been? Are you crazy? Do you think I'm that stupid? Do you have insomnia? Have you seen the doctor? Do you like oysters? When are you coming back? _

Aziraphale falls on his bed and sleeps. He must have dreamed it all up. 


	3. Chapter 3

If what Gabriel wants is a truly spooky experience, then it could have been achieved in New York just as well. Aziraphale is as out of place here as he used to be back in the States, what with his carefully cultivated queen's English and a natural penchant for lovely pomposity. But all this is getting out of Aziraphale's well-manicured hand. 

He thinks he's going mad. 

When he refuses to clean his mirrors (mirrors are not an appropriate place for flirting after all) and calls for the housekeeper, the mirrors are cleaner than the Alpine air. (Aziraphale has travelled to the Alps, he knows that this is no longer especially true, but he's a romantic and he'll die on that Mont Blanc.)

The greenhouse returns to its former glory eventually, sans pelican, but with a few more capybaras, one koala and a polar bear, who's apparently injured and tended to by Crowley, because he appears only once, provokes Bea to produce a small silver pistol out of their pocket and the next day it's gone, while Aziraphale's mirror curses Bea and invites Aziraphale for a drink. Aziraphale has a drink with Bea instead. 

"Bears eat people," Bea says eventually. 

"Is that something you witnessed when working for a mobster?"

"No. It's a fact. Climate change. Global warming. Polar bears don't get enough to eat. So they eat people." They speak with wonderful conviction. 

"If they can find them, then yes, they - have to make do."

"Aziraphale, this is crazy. There's not a single place where I can get a bulldozer. I asked around. There has never been a bulldozer here."

"Can't say that bulldozers make for good visitors," Aziraphale winces. 

"Fuck visitors. We have a paranormal greenhouse with a paranormal, I mean, polar bear. With a paranormal polar bear."

"You're making a fuss, my dear. The bear is gone. It's feeling better. And the pelican is gone too! Have you tried petting a capybara?"

"I respect them. I'm not just petting them."

"Then you could court them first," Aziraphale suggests.

"I'm too busy courting your brother and trying to arrange for a bulldozer and horse breeding. I don't want to mention another kink to Gabriel."

"He's vanilla," Aziraphale agrees wisely and pours Bea another drink.

"He's a vanilla bean," Bea says with surprising affection. 

Aziraphale can't admit that he's envious a little bit. Just a little bit. It's that little bit that makes the whole difference. It's the last straw, and Aziraphale isn't even a camel, although everything is possible, considering. 

The weather doesn't help either. It keeps raining and being gloomy. Aziraphale blames the weather. He's ready to believe every pseudoscientific theory from the eighteenth century just to be able to explain this midsummer madness in March.

April passes without an incident. Apparently Crowley wants to be taken seriously, so he doesn't bother with April. There are more hummingbirds in the greenhouse, a few confused elephants who somehow fit in and even walk around. 

The first day of May Aziraphale wakes up - and screams. His windows have turned French overnight and overlook a beach. 

"Now, there's no need to scream," Crowley says. He's standing on the beach with a seagull on his head and a hummingbird on his shoulder. He might as well be a very sexy Francis of Assisi. 

"Where am I?" Aziraphale asks, pulling his duvet to his chin to cover his pyjamas. 

"Exactly where you were," Crowley shrugs. He has a baguette in his hands and he tosses chunks of it into the water, to the delight of all the fishes and Aziraphale's horror.

"You can't feed them bread!" Aziraphale steps out on the beach, his duvet around his shoulders, to match Crowley's sense of fashion, so to speak. 

"They asked for bread. It's their decision. They are fully grown fishes!" 

The sand is pleasant and tender between Aziraphale's toes. The sea laps at his feet. It's - lovely. 

"So, how am I here  _ and _ exactly where I was?"

"Well - it's tricky. Maybe I'll explain it to you one day."

Crowley keeps tossing the bread into the water. The seagull decides that it has had enough and flies away, soon followed by the hummingbird. 

"Fancy a swim? It's my favourite day on Crete. About two hundred years ago… Or was it more? Doesn't matter. It's a good day."

Aziraphale gapes at him. 

"What?"

"What? My favourite day. Crete. I never keep the buildings or other things like that. Gardens, yes. Orchards. A couple of woods. Nothing compares to my garden here, though."

"So… No one has ever noticed? No one has ever tried to - exorcise you?"

"They surely tried!" Crowley laughs. It's a good laugh, hearty and giggly and amused. Aziraphale wonders what it feels like to be the one responsible for Crowley's laugh. 

"Hope they never hurt you," Aziraphale says quietly and sits on the sand. 

"They haven't," Crowley replies softly. "I'm not that easy to hurt. And I'm very, very, very naughty and mischievous."

"I noticed."

Crowley sits next to Aziraphale. "Have I - pissed you off?"

"Can't say. I'm still quite certain that I'm going mad."

"You're not. It wasn't my intention to make you feel so."

"What is your intention then?"

"Entirely honest," Crowley replies earnestly. He stretches his legs - he has incredibly long legs, he seems to be just legs all the way through. Aziraphale could swear that water comes closer. 

"Will you stop writing on my mirrors?" Aziraphale asks. 

"Of course. I'm sorry. I'm a bit rusty…"

"I can see that." Aziraphale looks at Crowley's hair. 

"I'm… behaving like a ghost and I'm not one."

"That's part of the game, perhaps?"

"Only I'm entirely serious." Crowley looks at Aziraphale, serious indeed. 

For a while they sit in silence. 

"I asked my worms to bring you my letters, you know. But they don't approve of you." Crowley draws a worm in the sand a bit clumsily. 

"I can't fathom why." Aziraphale doesn't know if he's offended or amused. 

"Neither can I. They are old. Seen things. Don't judge. They mean well."

"They keep covering my feet with their - stuff."

"I'll talk to them. Can I walk you back to your room?"

"It's right here," Aziraphale says, a bit regretfully. 

"It doesn't have to be, if you want. I can make a walk last as long as you need. How much time is appropriate?"

"Fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen minutes it is then." Crowley offers Aziraphale his hand and Aziraphale accepts it. 

They walk back together and Crowley leaves without entering Aziraphale's room. Damn the peculiar creature! He must have known that Aziraphale will follow him with his eyes. 

Which Aziraphale does. He's standing there, flexing his fingers and maybe - just maybe - trying to keep the feeling of Crowley's hand there… This is precisely why Aziraphale shouldn't read so many novels! And drink less tea. 

Suddenly he hears Crowley's voice. "Hey, hey, angel!"

He's moved quite far so he's yelling, but joyously and excitedly, waving his arms and dancing - if it can be called so.

"If you ever want a drink! I can bring any drink you want! Go wild, angel!"

And with that Crowley runs away. 

Aziraphale shakes his head, which somehow is enough time for the room to return back to its original state. There's nothing else to do but to sigh. They could have bought a villa somewhere in France. In Spain. In Italy. Somewhere safe and far from the mischievous creatures with red hair and no sense of fashion. It would have been boring, though. 

Aziraphale has never been on an adventure, and this - all of it - seems like a good start. 

He gets dressed and decides to have breakfast in the greenhouse. Aziraphale doesn't say so to anyone, just piles his plate with every good thing and takes it to the prehistoric glory that sits in the middle of an English morning. 

There's a curious little tortoise sitting on the garden table that Aziraphale is certain wasn't there yesterday. He picks the creature up gently and calls it Achilles. The tortoise bristles. 

Aziraphale offers a few more names and they settle on Persephone. 

"So… you're a female?" Aziraphale asks.

The tortoise looks at him with sadness. 

"You're your own gender, got it. Come, Persephone. I think both of us could benefit from a walk. You're welcome to my shoulder."

On his way out he meets Bea, who casually greets Persephone and informs Aziraphale that there's not a single bulldozer available, so they are giving up on it.

Gabriel is busy in the stables, impatiently waiting for his horses to arrive. On the stable wall there's a line of question marks. Aziraphale sighs. 

"Persephone, I'm not a fan of horses, so I suggest you and I find something more pleasant to do with our time." 

Persephone nods wisely. Ah, Aziraphale thinks, what a pleasure it is to have an agreeable companion.


	4. Chapter 4

Aziraphale hits the archives. It sounds more badass and barbaric than a walk into one's library might imply. Aziraphale just enters the library and checks through the pretty endless housekeeping books and the numerous diaries of the less numerous owners of the castle. Some people just believe they are so interesting. 

The reading material makes Aziraphale wince more than once. He wants to burn everything down a few times as well. There, before his eyes, is a history of casual, banal cruelty turned towards everything unconventional, and despite the fact that the notions of conventionality change drastically, it doesn't bring Aziraphale any solace…

No, it's not true. There's one constant, a  _ c  _ to end all  _ c _ s, to make everything a bit better, and yet again it's this little bit that matters. That makes Aziraphale's reading not only more tolerable, but also - melancholic and wistful and with an undercurrent of something  _ good.  _ Something right and noble and naughty, naughty, naughty, but better than any pelican. 

And isn't it a fateful coincidence, a mere hint that perhaps the Lord doesn't play dice, although Aziraphale knows for sure that the Lord does, that the  _ c  _ of it all is  _ C _ rowley? 

Every time there's someone accused of witchcraft or having a brain or an opinion that doesn't agree with the approved opinion, the unfortunate person finds their way to the greenhouse that the owners can't remember ever building. Fire can't burn it and priests can't bless it, there's nothing that can be done, which unfortunately leads to terrible arranged marriages where the lady of the castle is always someone wronged long before stepping into the castle and wronged even more for being a younger daughter, a woman, a woman with a strong will, a woman who tries to be meek and obliging… All those ladies found their way to the greenhouse too and never returned - or never returned the same. 

There are angry accounts of adolescents with mental health problems who were about to be exorcised or tortured or killed - and they too escaped with Crowley's help, although no one knows where to. No searching party helped. 

The castle suffered through several fires and reconstructions, but the greenhouse has always remained the same. And indeed, no bulldozer has ever come…

Aziraphale realises he's crying. Oh, he'd have any drink with Crowley. 

There's a story about the lady of the castle who fell in love with her housekeeper and took over the household. Aziraphale can read between the lines, however well the lady and her lady hid the truth, which was never shameful. 

There's a story about a young lordling and his gamekeeper who somehow became the masters of the castle, despite the best efforts of his older brother and parents. 

They never learned though, and the next master would try to overthrow  _ the curse  _ \- only to succumb to what has never been a curse in the first place.

"Had to burn it all," a quiet, regretful voice says behind Aziraphale. He turns and sees Crowley standing there. There are two - two! - dodos by his side, protecting and guarding him. 

"Dodos," Aziraphale says through the tears. "You… have dodos!"

"Of course I do! The problem is I wasn't there on time… Picked just two of them, and well… Turned out that the female is a lesbian and the male is asexual. We tried some artificial ways, but they are both infertile. So… meet Sappho and Sherlock."

Both birds glare at Aziraphale but bow. 

"Hey, he's nice. And you bow to no one!" Crowley chides the birds. 

"This… this is incredible. You are incredible!"

"I really am… Not."

"I begin to wonder whether Noah had taken sexuality into account…" Aziraphale muses to distract Crowley and himself from crying. 

"You kidding, right? He never even considered it! I was there. There was someone who looked a lot like you as well… An angel. You're prettier, though. Kinder. That angel seemed to be alright with all the - drowning. Still… I couldn't have taken my eyes off of him." Crowley smiles, as if to mock himself, but Aziraphale can't laugh at him.

"He was a fool if he hadn't looked at you, my dear," Aziraphale says sincerely. 

"We all need time to grow. Sappho and Sherlock are very old, see, I keep them alive and thriving through - my imagination. They developed consciousness. If they ever begin to think about nuclear weapons, I'll have to kill them with my own hands. Had to do it with my mammoths. I'm hateful." 

Crowley sighs and sits on the floor. There's a velvet worm cosying up to his hand and doing a good impression of Fred Astaire along Crowley's long fingers. 

"I can't imagine you being hateful, dear boy. You have dodos!"

"I do. It's really enough for you? My dodos?"

"Of course it is! Oh, Crowley, I read through it all, and you're the only thing there that makes sense! You - you saved them all!"

"Don't make me into a scarlet pimpernel! Not my favourite plant anyway!"

"What is?" Aziraphale sits next to Crowley on the floor. The velvet worm - it's Steven, Aziraphale recognises - huffs at him, despite his natural inability to do so.

"Araucaria. And pines. Alright, I love them all. Awesome. Oh, I do adore liverwort! Lives in the worst places. It's so much better than me! Than anyone!"

Crowley seems so sad that Aziraphale offers him tea and sandwiches, but Crowley goes on. Aziraphale makes a mental note to never ask Crowley botanical questions. His mind wanders off at this, because he's a scholar at heart and not that innocent (ah-ya-ya-ya-ya-yay), so he thinks what would happen if say, Crowley is kissing down Aziraphale's throat and Aziraphale - for some ineffable reason - asks him a question about plants… Well, plants can be so phallic… Do stamens have incredible stamina? That way lies Aziraphale's laptop, so he makes his mind return to Crowley at hand. Steven doesn't approve. Steven is so grumpy it hurts. Imagine being as old as a velvet worm, evolution-wise. It has to hurt. 

"Sequoia. Yes. Sequoias. Tall buggers. And baobabs… Tree cities, baobabs! I don't like cities. But baobabs…"

Crowley apparently interrupts Persephone's nap, and the disgruntled tortoise appears from under several books that really should be kept in better conditions… 

"Oh Persephone! There you are! I was worried sick! Where have you been?.. Oh, made a new friend? I see. Good. Great. I'm not jealous." Crowley shrugs. He's not jealous.

"I'm glad some of your friends like me," Aziraphale laughs and reaches out to Persephone who plants themself on his palm and look very content. Aziraphale pets them. 

Crowley smiles at him, all soft wrinkles and gentle curves despite his inherent sharpness. "Did you think about that drink? Is there something you've always wanted to taste?"

Aziraphale stops himself before he can say  _ you _ . "I gave it a thought and - anything would do."

"So… What would you say to birch sap? It's just the season and it's delicious!" Crowley's eyes glow, while Aziraphale chases away the mental image of Crowley licking a tree.

"I'm not licking a tree!"

"Oi, why would lick it! I can collect it into a cup. Or a goblet, if that's your thing!"

As they walk through the castle on the way out, Aziraphale is surprised to discover that no one else sees Crowley. 

"They have to believe in me to see," Crowley says without Aziraphale having to ask. "Or to be - open-minded. That's how we came to be, you know. Me, and that angel and every other creature. It's just that I was thought up with imagination, so I remained. I believe in myself and that's enough."

Aziraphale doesn't care about the uplifting implications of Crowley's words. 

"Do you know what happened to your angel?"

"He was never mine! No one is mine! I'm not possessive, you know. The only creatures I can call mine, with some stretch, are those I took responsibility for with their full consent. And that angel - I haven't seen him after Noah. It's a good memory, a vibrant one. But irrelevant. And why would I talk to you about him on our first date? Or is it a second?"

"Is that a date?"

"If you want to… Oh, I'm so rusty!"

The birch Crowley leads Aziraphale to is an old respectable tree. Crowley produces a golden goblet out of nowhere and quickly fills it. "Come on. Try it. It's sweet and very tree!"

Aziraphale takes a sip (of sap). He should have known better about the nature of drinking something - magical out of a magical goblet made by a magical creature, but he thinks of it far too late, when there are just a few drops left. 

"Finish it," he asks, thrusting the goblet back into Crowley's hands.

Crowley arches one beautiful eyebrow and does as he's told. 

"It doesn't mean a thing, angel."

"I'm no angel."

"And I'm no Isolte." Crowley makes the goblet disappear. 

"Maybe it's not as much of a pity as my mind tries to convince me," Aziraphale mutters. "I'm definitely not Tristan."

"You shouldn't be. A total bore he was!"

Persephone huffs on Aziraphale's shoulder. 

If this is indeed madness, Aziraphale doesn't think he'd miss his sanity. Crowley takes his hand and tugs him along through the woods, constantly chattering about every little thing around them. His hand is warm. Aziraphale would let him imagine Aziraphale. He knows he'd never be able to imagine Crowley. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bea brings weed. Aziraphale approves and so they spend a late evening together in the greenhouse. It's eerily silent and dark, but actually it's just words. The darkness is good, cosy even. Crowley is nowhere to be seen, and it's something Aziraphale has to talk about with Crowley. He can call him and he'll come running, but it's just not the same as finding someone where you know they will be. It makes Aziraphale think he doesn't know Crowley, doesn't get the trust necessary for being able to find someone. A place isn't even a place without a - someone who can be found there. After all, a place is just another form of clothes. 

"Gabriel is breeding horses," Bea says. 

"Oh, I know. It's disgusting." Aziraphale inhales and exhales. The world tilts a bit. It's scientifically correct, so Aziraphale doesn't complain. 

"I suspect he doesn't understand how perverse it is, to watch a couple of beautiful creatures have somewhat passionate sex. I mean, for a horse…" Bea sip their tea which is three quarters whiskey and one quarter kombucha. Aziraphale thinks it's even more disgusting than Gabriel watching horse porn live. 

"Well. He must bond with them on the grounds of health and fitness. And muscles. Did he hurt you, my dear?"

"You think he can hurt me? Well, yeah, he fucking hurt me! I hardly see him and when I do, he thinks we need to get married!" Bea inhales so deeply they start coughing. 

"I can talk to him, if you want."

"Nah, not worth it. He'll come around. I'm wittier than a horse."

"You're so much better than any horse," Aziraphale says. He might be high already but he's quite certain of his opinion. And he doesn't like horses that much. 

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome." They sit and smoke in silence. "Actually, I had a question for you. I just - don't know who to talk with."

"Sure, fire away."

"How would you feel, if your - someone you liked a lot were invisible?"

"Kinky."

"No, invisible for everyone apart from you."

"That's a very queer romance right there."

"Oh… I didn't think about it that way."

"You should, Aziraphale. Whoever they are, if you see them, it's - it's the most important part. I trust them to see you. If you see them."

"And if they are immortal?"

"Hm… Can they make you immortal too?"

"I didn't consider that either… Am I an idiot?" Aziraphale asks his joint. 

"No. You're apparently in the first flurry of an affair. It's a good time." Bea smiles wisely. 

Aziraphale considers Bea's words through the night and in the morning when he wakes up to find a beach by his yet again French windows. Crowley is waiting by the water. 

"Good morning, my dear." Aziraphale is still rather sleepy and he's been thinking a lot, so he rests his head on Crowley's shoulder without much fuss. 

Crowley freezes for a moment, stops feeding a brioche to the fishes - and relaxes the following moment, smiling so brightly and so prettily. 

"Slept well, angel?"

"Yes. There's something I wanted to ask you."

"Sure. Anything." Crowley nudges Aziraphale's head with his chin.

"I want to know where to find you. You always find me, and yesterday…"

"I thought you wanted some time with the butler. And they wouldn't be able to see me, so - what if it felt weird?"

"You're right, darling. But I still want to know where to find you. I want to be able to come to you too. Is that too much to ask?"

"Nothing is too much to ask when it comes to you, angel. Of course. I'm in the greenhouse most of the time. Sometimes I travel. I can leave you a note every time I leave. Would you like that?" Crowley turns to face Aziraphale, which prompts Aziraphale to cup Crowley's face. 

"Your skin… You never shave, do you?" Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley swallows. It seems to be the first human touch he's experienced in about forever and Aziraphale finds it heartbreaking. 

"I can literally bring you anything you might want and you want to talk about shaving?" Crowley smiles.

"And feelings."

"Oh dear, I should definitely bring you something. An eagle, a whale…"

"Hush. Talk to me."

"I never shave. I never considered I might need it. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's not. It's just that I'm a human and you're not." Aziraphale can't move his hands from Crowley's face. It's a handsome face after all, and Crowley looks at Aziraphale with confused fondness. 

"I know," Crowley agrees. 

"And I will die."

"You don't have to. I need your consent of course, but you don't have to." Crowley is speaking passionately, and yet he's so lost. Apparently Aziraphale isn't the only one who hasn't thought about certain things. 

"Have you ever kissed someone?" Aziraphale whispers. 

Crowley's eyes fly to Aziraphale's lips and back to his eyes. "I haven't. Never wanted to."

"Do you want to kiss me? Did you want to kiss that angel?"

"I do and I didn't. Why are you so bothered by him?" Crowley frowns. 

"Well, you mentioned him. And you call me _angel_." 

"You look like one. Not the one. Just one. One pretty angel. One beautiful, maddening, fussy, kind angel."

"We're going nowhere," Aziraphale whispers again and leans up to kiss Crowley. Before he closes his eyes he sees Crowley's widen and then not just shut but squint. He's somehow both infinitely more powerful than Aziraphale and an absolute novice, scared to move and breathe. Maybe he doesn't even need to breathe - and then he does, sharply, through the nose, his lips shimmer against Aziraphale's, and it's like kissing a star. Who would compare? 

"Beautiful," Crowley rasps when Aziraphale presses their foreheads together. "I liked that. Did you?"

"Astonishing. Come again." He kisses Crowley again, more lips, more mouth, more tongues and teeth and wetness and air. It's a rainforest, humming and noisy and alive, all between their mouths. It makes Aziraphale feel like a giant. It makes Aziraphale feel like a moth. He moves closer to Crowley, wraps his arms around Crowley's shoulders and can sense Crowley's arms around his waist. Crowley hums, moans, breathes. He's a quick study, unsurprisingly. 

"You just nullified ages of experience," Crowley says. His whole body is shimmering and shaking. 

"Now we're equal, then. Aren't we, darling?"

"Always have been." Crowley's voice is soft and his eyes are still closed. 

"I think you're right, however nonsensical it all seems."

"I've lived for so long, angel, and honestly, nothing makes sense… Come again?"

Aziraphale kisses him again. His duvet falls in the sand. Crowley's robe is softer than a spring leaf under his fingers. Crowley himself, however, feels anything but soft. He's a tight spring, energy bubbling under his skin and ribs, ready to bounce, to unravel. 


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale hitches up Crowley's robe. He kisses down Crowley's throat. The best part is that it's not a dream, it's as real as it gets. It's beautiful and breathes heavily. 

They are in a hammock suspended somewhere high above the ground, on an old beech tree, far enough from the castle and everything else. It's just them. No bedroom in Aziraphale's life has allowed something so pure, so removed from every worry of the world. 

"However close we are, there's always an infinity between us," Crowley mutters, because he's happy and confused and open. 

"Darling, must you talk like that now?" Aziraphale bites Crowley's ear. He tastes of spring and autumn, of summer, of winter, of the first snow, of the last rain. 

"Silly angel." Crowley buries his hand in Aziraphale's hair and looks at him, soft and warm, infinite - and all of him just here and now. He defies everything Aziraphale knows; he defies quantum mechanics too, because he allows Aziraphale to know both his position and momentum with admirable precision. "We can never occupy the same point in space-time, and so I can always look at you and admire you - and love you." Crowley looks at Aziraphale so seriously, he's so old, he's so young, he's so clever and he's so naive. 

"Oh darling… oh my sweet darling…" Aziraphale kisses Crowley's lips, his nose and his eyes, and tugs away and off his black robe. 

"What do you want to find there? Between my legs?" Crowley asks. 

"Wh… whatever you choose, darling. It doesn't matter." Especially if Aziraphale can dive back for another kiss. 

Crowley is hopeless with buttons, of which Aziraphale has - a lot. Aziraphale gets rid of it all, lets it hang over the edge of the hammock or float to the ground. 

Their bodies come close, there's such a lovely sound when Aziraphale's hand slides up Crowley's thigh, there's such a lovely tingling when Crowley's hands cup Aziraphale's shoulder blades. But it's mostly his eyes, Crowley's beautiful sunset eyes, the eyes that have seen so much and yet are looking at Aziraphale with wonder befitting a young lover - that Crowley most certainly is. Any thoughts and misgivings Aziraphale has had come apart, because Crowley may be a powerful being thought up perhaps by the Lord Herself in Her most generous and mischievous act of creation, but it's Aziraphale who's bringing Crowley the lover's experience and touch and tenderness. Crowley might have saved countless lovers and loves, but it's Aziraphale that he gets to feel it with, and it fills Aziraphale with pride and with awe. 

"I could kiss you forever, Crowley."

"That could be arranged. Just have to have a talk with my garden…"

Aziraphale pouts at that, so Crowley immediately corrects himself. "It can wait. Anything can wait."

Aziraphale makes everything wait. Aziraphale stops Crowley's time. They make love for what feels like forever and a few hours - the latter is, unfortunately, the objective fact, of which Crowley complains as he returns them both to the ground.

Let me go on a tangent here. It would be entirely legitimate to assume that I have nothing else to say and so I'm trying to lull you into keeping reading me. I'm not sure, though. I have something to say, it's just not related to the plot - or is it?

When I start writing, I'm creating a world (within a world, within several worlds actually - within the original work on which I base my own, within the original head on my original shoulders, within the limited realm of my perception). That world has, let's say,  _ x  _ dimensions. Every reader adds or subtracts another dimension - or several of those. The story itself, as it often happens to me, gains some dimensions of its own. My  _ x  _ makes no sense. I myself forget what it meant. 

Now, let's say that this story right now has  _ x  _ to the power of  _ n _ dimensions. I can barely imagine three. See, in this case, Crowley is being of another dimension. He's very eager to be naughty and tricky and make everyone think. He desperately wants to let Aziraphale experience as much as Crowley himself does. It will take some mental gymnastics for Aziraphale to do so, but he'll manage - and as for me, I don't. 

So let them walk through  _ x  _ to the power of  _ n+1  _ dimensions. I can't follow them. I don't know what happens next and, considering some scenarios, I'm afraid to consider anything that happens next. Maybe Gabriel will never believe Aziraphale. Maybe Aziraphale will never tell Gabriel. Will Aziraphale be satisfied in a relationship where he can't share his happiness with those he loves? Will Crowley get tired of Aziraphale? Will Aziraphale get tired of Crowley? Will they be truly supreme beings and talk through all of their disagreements? I don't know. 

I really don't know what happens next and I don't want to force my version on you. I'm leaving you at the crossroads. I trust you to find and take the road that appeals to you the most. I'm afraid to take any roads leading from that hammock. I prefer to see them forever on the tree, happy and giddy and in love. Any continuation seems to be able to make that moment crack, shatter,  _ change. _ I don't want that moment of happiness to change. I apologise for it. I'm grateful for your attention. I'm sorry for any disappointment. I'm leaving you here to take the road of your own. I trust you. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for being here. I love talking to you.


End file.
